Chapter One: The Impossible
I heard your voice through a photograph
I thought it up it brought up the past
Once you know you can never go back
I’ve got to take it on the other side
Centuries are what it meant to me
A cemetery where I marry the sea
Stranger things could never change my mind
I’ve got to take it on the otherside
~Red Hot Chili Peppers
At a table in the middle of a park in the heart of San Francisco sat a weathered old man in a rather beaten Fedora. He seemed to be playing a game of chess alone, staring at the board as though waiting for someone in the unoccupied seat to make his next move.
No one paid any attention to the man at the table for he came here every day. The pieces had not moved since that first day, when the old man made the opening move. He waited and waited and waited, spending hour upon hour awaiting a move that was likely to never come.
If anyone had stopped to ask why he came to the same park, to the same table, to the same game every day, Erik Lensherr might have given them an honest answer. The truth, however, might have been too much for the listen to bear. But no one had ever asked and he was sure no one ever would.
For Erik was in the deepest mourning. Those who knew the identity of this man before the atrocity that was Alcatraz Island might have thought he mourned the loss of a dream decades in the making. Just when the true power was in his grasp, he’d lost everything to the tactics of disciples.
Indeed, Erik had lost a part of him that kept his ambition boiling for thirty years. That part of him had defined the man to the world as the hateful mutant known only as Magneto. Magneto had caused countless deaths and billions in damage to the city in which he kept his silent vigil before the X-Men robbed him of the ability to control metals.
But this was not the reason for his mourning. In the wake of Alcatraz, Erik had realized exactly what that battle cost him. His dearest friend and enemy died before his eyes. Those last moments, when Charles Xavier’s last words were not a plea for mercy nor a warning, Erik understood that the grief would eventually hit him. He’d called for his friend, knowing that through it all he still loved that man more than he ever had any human being before.
His brother, companion, confidante gone at the whim of a madwoman and his own ambition.
That was whom he waited for, whom he mourned with everything in his body. Alone at the table in the park in San Francisco, Erik waited for Charles to move that piece, to start the games that never ended. Through it all, Charles had ever been his friend, searching for his blasted hope even when Erik found himself bound in a prison of the strongest plastics.
So he waited, waited, waited while what was left of his heart reminded him that Charles had been wrenched too soon from this world. Oh, he missed Charles. He relived those final moments every day, sitting here staring at the unmoving chessboard.
Raising his hand, Erik focused with his mind, trying to move the metallic piece. Each piece held to the board via a small magnet, which he could have easily manipulated to his delight over a year ago.
To his surprise, the piece moved. Though not by much, his pawn wiggled, shivered in the early morning breeze. Had that been his imagination?
Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw a ghostly figure sitting in the empty seat across from him. He looked up, light flickering in the cobalt eyes that seemed dead to any who passed him over the last twelve months.
“Charles?”
~**~
The crowd roared in approval as Logan stomped to the side of the heavy wire cage. Patrons sloshed their beer mugs in their quest to clap harder and harder, drunken cheers melding and meshing until they were nothing more than background noise.
Reaching through a tear the wire surrounding him, Logan took the lit cigar from a waitress, ignoring her saucy wink. In the two months he’d traveled through this part of Alaska, Logan had done a little mattress dancing with the petite blonde a time or two. She wasn’t all that great in the sack, but she did make a killer omelet.
Inhaling the sweet smoke from a fine cigar, Logan rested one arm against the side of the cage. He’d already won near five hundred in American dollars, the crumpled bills kept in a small pile just outside his “corner” of the cage. They came back every night, wanting to see someone pound a “mutie” into the ground. It was common knowledge that he wasn’t normal, though no one seemed overly fussed by that. The bar’s regulars returned again and again just to see how many men they could throw at Wolverine before he got bored.
Sometimes he recalled a similar night so long ago, when a Southern belle shouted for him to look out before she hopped into the back of his truck. Logan smiled briefly at the memory, the sound of Rogue’s innocent voice coming back across months and miles. He sipped from a piss-warm beer, cracking his neck from side to side as yet another stepped up to see if he could pound Wolverine into the ground.
Handing his cigar back to the waitress, Logan stretched his arms out while turning. The next contestant had shoulders like concrete blocks and a head that looked just as thick. He seemed just drunk enough to be overly belligerent, but he did nod to Logan in some form of respect. Logan smirked a little, but returned the gesture. There wasn’t really any animosity between the men aside from the usual male need to beat the hell out of another man.
The “bell” dinged and Logan let his concrete-shaped playmate take the first swing. He dodged it easily, but took the next two to the ribcage. Logan came back up with a powerful uppercut, the metallic ringing of adamantium meeting bone resonating through the thrilled crowd. His name was being chanted while the audience pounded the floor with booted feet in encouragement.
Concrete man came back at Logan, taking another mean jab to the face. Blood spilled all over Wolverine’s hand even as he sent a sharp knee into his opponent’s midsection. Air audibly rushed from bruised lungs, so Logan stepped back to allow him to catch his breath. He likened it to predator toying with his prey.
“Don’t play with your food, Wolverine.” The blonde shouted from beyond the mesh cage. “Rip his spine out!”
He tossed her a small, hollow smile while his opponent stood and rushed him. Logan had the idiot on his back inside of a minute, listening as the crowd went wild once more. His take for the night would likely come out to over a grand, which wasn’t bad for a man who healed up within minutes after a fight.
While the “announcer” attempted to round up more for Logan’s cage matches, the man in question pulled a shirt on, took his cigar and moved toward the bar. The waitress fetched him a fresh beer, squeezing his arm affectionately before moving away. Logan settled on a barstool, leaning over the thick mahogany bar in moody silence.
He’d been on the road for almost a year now, moving from place to place, living from day to day. Though he had originally wanted to stay on at Xavier’s, it just didn’t work without her. No matter what Storm had told him that day in his bedroom, there wasn’t anything left for Wolverine in Westchester.
Chuck was gone, the first person he could remember ever wanting to really help him. Scott had died by the same hands as the Professor and Logan himself took away the woman he’d loved beyond reason and doubt. Every time he walked the halls, her memory haunted him. He’d lost so much…
The decision to leave was not a difficult one. It was simply time to move on, to get back to his life. Logan stared down at the untouched beer on the bar, peering into the bottle as though it would reassure him that he’d done the right thing. Though he had no desire to return to the mansion and it’s students, he did miss someone.
Marie.
That kid had wormed her way into his heart before the Professor or Jean managed to. Had she not jumped into his truck needing his help, Logan might never have opened wide enough to let them in. He wondered how she was doing now, some ten months after he’d left the X-Men and their dream behind. Was she still counted among their number? Did she think of him?
The note he’d left her was long, a thorough explanation behind his decision. He thought, at least, that she deserved that. When he rode off into the night on the motorcycle he’d recovered from Alkali Lake after Scott’s death, it was with the best of intentions. They didn’t need him running around half-cocked, half a man in the wake of everything that happened. It was for the best, really.
Hell, they had Storm, what more did they need? That steel-willed woman was better at running the school than Charles. She certainly didn’t need him around. No one did. Marie had Bobby, Storm had her kids and they had her. There wasn’t any room for the Wolverine among their number.
Oh, he kept his ears open for any hints of trouble. If it came down to a fight, he knew they might actually need him. Storm’s kids were good, but young. If anything seemed to crop up, maybe he’d turn that old bike back toward New York and give them a hand.
Then again, maybe not.
Storm might not want him to help. After her insistence that Phoenix be dealt with, the actuality of Jean’s death seemed to cut her deeply. Storm rarely met his eyes after that day and spoke to him only when she absolutely had to. How could he blame her? He had, after all, killed a woman he could only guess was closer than a blood sister.
Yes, his leaving the X-Men had been the best thing, for all of them.
Logan left the bar shortly after midnight, having found no others willing to tangle with the unstoppable mutant. To his surprise, it seemed to be all in good fun so long as he didn’t cause any permanent damage. Many of his opponents offered to buy him a drink while they talked about the latest developments in the hockey season.
As he reached the bike that would take him back to the hotel he’d lived in for several weeks, Logan looked up at the bright sky above. The Northern Lights swayed and twinkled amid a backdrop of midnight blue. He found the lights to be something rather beautiful, a constant that moved him every night.
Swinging his leg over the bike, Logan sighed. Times like this, he missed that old man and his cryptic, but benevolent guidance.
Where are you going?
Logan turned sharply from his seat on the bike, searching the deserted street for a man he knew couldn’t possibly be there. Was his mind playing tricks on him again? It had to be the memory coming back to him again.
Determined to put it out of his mind, Logan roared Scott’s old bike to life, flipping on the headlight.
Where are you going? This way.
“Professor?” Logan’s voice sounded impossibly loud, even as a gust of cool wind kicked up down the street.
He’d heard that voice. It couldn’t be a memory, could it? That familiar whisper was too close, too real.
Logan.
Shaking now, Logan turned the bike off and swung his leg over the seat. Standing, waiting, ready to strike, he turned in all directions. Keen eyesight caught nothing out of place, but he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck and hands stand up straight. The presence could not be denied, though his eyes and nose told him nothing was amiss in the vicinity.
Where are you going, Logan?
A lump of emotion lodged in Logan’s throat. He bit it back as best he could, even as the mansion appeared in the distant dark. Clearly, as though he were standing on the pristine lawns, Logan saw the grand mansion, heard the sound of a child’s laughter.
Logan.
He blinked at the soft, entreating voice, feeling a tear slide down his cheek. There was no mistaking it. Someone was tapping into his mind and the thought did not terrify him, for he knew that warm presence. The mere sound of that whispered voice, the feel of that kind presence reminded him of how much he missed the old man.
“I got it.” Logan whispered to nothingness. He opened his eyes to find the image of the mansion gone, replaced by the seemingly barren and dingy town. “I got it, Wheels.”
Logan hopped onto the bike and roared it to life.
Xavier was alive.
~**~
Ororo sat in her office, idly looking over the paperwork for the next term. She sighed, rereading the lines of one report for the third time. Her mind kept wandering today, lost on a tide of memory she was unable to cast away. The nightmares were becoming worse, creeping now into the daylight hours. She could hear the heartbroken sobs of Wolverine as they stood upon the site of Charles’ death. In the dark, she could feel his shaking shoulders as she embraced him, as they mourned the loss of the one that turned them both into human beings.
Once, so long ago, Ororo Munroe lived in the shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro. Upon those ancient plains, her mother’s people worshipped her mastery of the elements as all that was divine. She was, on no uncertain terms, their deity. Whatever she asked of them was eagerly provided. The people of this far away land knew nothing of mutants and decided upon the culmination of her gifts that Ororo was their goddess.
Their Windrider.
For several years, Ororo lived peacefully among her mother’s tribe. She learned all she could of the old ways, the history and myth of the ancient people. They doted upon her, worshipped her, made Ororo believe she was indeed a goddess among mortals.
When Charles came, it was with the unwelcome knowledge that they had been wrong. He spoke into her mind, a gentle, whispered entreating to walk with him. As she soared above the earth, unchecked, unchallenged by any mortal being, Charles alone begged her down from the heavens.
In the quiet of their minds, Charles showed her what it was like to be among those of her own kind. At first, she rejected him. Who was this old cripple to tell her she was not to be worshipped? Windrider a mere human being? Ha!
Carefully, slowly, Charles wore her down. Over a period of months, he broke into her confidences. No matter how she surrounded herself with simpering worshippers, they held her back from the one thing she truly wanted.
Family.
As Charles discovered her secret desires, he offered no more teaching, no more lessons in control which she abhorred. Instead, he stretched forth his hand and offered her only a family. A brother, a sister, a father. Those things she yearned for deep in the recesses of her lonesome heart. She knew it was not a ploy to gain her confidences. Somehow, Ororo simply knew that Charles had already grown to love her as his daughter. She almost eagerly cast aside the goddess and made room for the mutant.
What Ororo did not expect happened quickly. In the United States, surrounded by books and schools and all those things her distant village could not provide, Ororo blossomed. She devoured knowledge as a man famished, ravished every book she could get her hands on. Late nights were spent in the Professor’s office, arguing ethics, politics, and science with those that swiftly became the family so long denied.
In two short years, Ororo found herself a sister, a daughter, and an educated woman. She knew, even then, that her place would ever be at Charles’ side. Though he groomed Scott to run the school, Ororo kept it running smoothly. Frequently she acted behind the scenes, taking care of the little things the others never had to think about.
In Charles she had found her father. Scott became the brother she never expected to need. And Jean…oh, Jean was the other half of her.
The two forged an instant bond that seared Ororo to the soul. She loved her fair friend more with every passing day. Teenage years were spent in whispered conference, discussing everything from boys to mutant rights while cuddled together on one of their beds. She could recall, even now, the way Jean smiled beneath the sheet that acted as their tent, a flashlight dimly illuminating the small space.
Together they completed college courses. Jean and Ororo were scarcely parted, even when the former fell in love with Scott. She’d rejoiced in the pair, wished them all the happiness she could muster from every part of her heart. Love bloomed at Xavier’s School, even as the war for mutant rights began to gain momentum. Ororo never feared this unavoidable fight. She never thought that one day she would awake to the cold dark, to the bitterness of being left alone.
Her family, that for which she traded her idolatry, had left her. Charles and Scott taken by the Phoenix that first destroyed her Jean’s beautiful mind. Ororo could weep no longer, tears could not assuage the pain. The strength to cry for those she’d lost simply left her.
In fact, she had not cried since discovering Wolverine had slipped away into the night.
Ororo did not know what reasons he had given to Rogue, whom revealed that he had left her a letter in his wake. She cared very little to hear his pithy excuses. No matter how many challenges she dealt him, the Wolverine was not tied to this place any longer. When Jean and Charles left this world, they took with them any connection Logan had to the school.
Really, Ororo was surprised he’d remained for the eight weeks he had. Perhaps he wanted to assure himself that Storm would not lose her mind. She inwardly snorted at this thought. Logan could never understand what she’d lost those terrible days one year ago. With the school, the children, the dream to look after Ororo did not have the time to lose her mind. She kept her wits about her because someone had to.
She’d known Logan would not remain the moment he lay Jean’s cold, dead body at her feet. While her heart screamed, her soul shattered and Logan looked to her for forgiveness. At the time, she could offer him none. Though Storm marched into that battle knowing what the outcome might be, she could only feel the terrible loss. Her entire family laid buried in the garden. When Logan silently asked for her mercy, Ororo merely turned her back.
It was, after all, for the best.
Storm could not control Wolverine, worry about his mental health around the children when she had so much else to do. There were new students, new teachers, an entire new world to deal with now. Looking after the Wolverine was simply asking too much. She kept her distance, prepared for the moment when Charles’ second son would slip away into the night.
Though her mentor had many students, most came and went with a simple relationship with the Professor. He was their headmaster, their protector and nothing more. But for a select few, Charles became so much more. He had, in essence, five children.
Scott, Henry, Jean, Ororo, and Logan. The last came latest but immediately pierced her beloved father’s heart. Something in the wounded man’s mind bonded Charles and Logan together so deeply Ororo was unsure if even death could part them. With his aching need to reach out to someone in need and Logan’s burning desire to be loved in some way without pain, they made a quick, lasting connection.
Perhaps part of her was jealous of this, though she would never admit it aloud. Charles possessed boundless love in his life, it seemed only proper that he bestow that wonderful gift on someone so fractured as Logan. Part of Ororo was ever glad that Logan understood how important that relationship would always be to him. She’d known it the moment she found his shattered form weeping over Charles’ now empty wheelchair.
She held him then, letting their dually broken heart meld together for one, beautiful moment. They both knew what a blow Phoenix had dealt with this one, irrevocable action. She’d taken Charles and for that there could be no forgiveness, no matter how both Ororo and Logan loved her.
Sighing, the white-capped mutant put her paperwork down. So lost in her thoughts was the exhausted headmistress that she’d scarcely read anything in the last several minutes. Memories did this to her lately. Something always pressed at the edges of her awareness, begging to be brought out and examined again and again.
Unable to help herself, Ororo turned her eyes to the enormous, life-like portrait of the late Charles Xavier hanging above the fireplace. From the glossy oil paint lovingly rendered to canvas by their resident Colossus, Charles smiled benevolently. Ororo returned the expression, her heart aching with missing her companion. She stood without meaning to, crossing to the portrait out of habit.
One long fingered hand reached up, touching the painted hand of Charles imbedded on the canvas. Her dark eyes closed, her breathing slowing until she could almost hear his voice, smell his cologne on the air, feel the warmth of his skin.
Windrider.
Another memory came to surface, this time so clear, so close that Ororo bit back the emotional lump forming in her throat. He’d called to her that way so long ago, as she danced with lightning in the skies above.
My Windrider.
Ororo’s eyes opened. A tickling sensation crept over her mind, bringing back a host of memories. She’d lived with the most powerful telepath on the planet for decades…she knew when her mind was being tapped into.
Before Ororo could slam her mental blocks into place, as Charles taught her, she caught another whispered plea.
Windrider, come to me.
Cautiously, Ororo kept her mind open, closing her eyes again. She controlled her breathing quickly, slowing it into the meditative state that would let her through the mental link once shared by an entire family.
Ororo felt her body drift away as her mind drew into itself, hoisting her consciousness to the Astral Plane. Here, power meant little. Only the mind could meet. The dangerous territory had its drawbacks, for anything that happened within the vaults of the mind often reflected in the body. Charles had warned her to be cautious, to only approach the plane with his guidance.
Come to me.
In the void, Ororo saw a beacon of light so bright she had to raise her hand to shield her eyes. She felt a warm, soothing presence around her so familiar it made her wounded heart ache and bleed in her chest.
“Charles?”
Her voice echoed, reverberating until it came back to her a hundred times. She took two more steps toward the light, feeling as though she were being drawn into a safe cocoon.
“Ororo.”
Turning sharply, Ororo gasped. Standing before her, unhindered by his useless legs in the recesses of their minds, stood Charles Xavier. Ororo stretched a hand toward him, knowing this should be impossible. Charles gave her that benevolent smile, his hand meeting hers across the space between their “bodies”.
She could not take her eyes from him, even as their fingers touched delicately, an exploration and reunion in one.
“How can this be?” Ororo whispered, her soft tone still echoing in the void.
“Anything is possible, daughter,” Charles replied gently. “The time has come for me to return home.”
Stubborn, Ororo shook her head, though her fingers grasped his more firmly. “Prove to me who you are.”
Charles seemed proud that she questioned him and chuckled quietly. “You tell everyone your favorite movie is To Kill A Mockingbird.”
Ororo smirked.
“But the actual favorite is Wayne’s World.”
Unable to help herself, Ororo closed the distance between their astral bodies, wrapping Charles in her arms and holding him tightly.
“You’re alive.”
“Come to me, Windrider, and take me home.”
He vanished a moment later, leaving Ororo drifting back into the body waiting back at the mansion. Tears were splashing down her cheeks when Storm managed to open her eyes, her consciousness filled with that warm, dearly missed presence of Charles’ mind.
The moment her eyes focused on the painting, Ororo saw a building flash behind her eyes; one last message that must have taken all of his remaining strength. She immediately recognized the towering castle, the rocky coast. Charles must have used everything in his power to contact her this way, to assure her it was not a trap nor cruel prank.
Understanding now, Ororo whispered to the portrait smiling down at her.
“Muir Island.”
